


a f t e r g l o w

by orphan_account



Category: Yu-Gi-Oh! VRAINS
Genre: M/M, mild violence, more dubcon than noncon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-03
Updated: 2018-08-03
Packaged: 2019-06-21 07:54:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,745
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15553122
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: “I’ve always wanted to know what you looked like when you cried.”[ Set under the premise that Spectre has been sneaking away to visit Yusaku ever since his revival after the ToH. ]





	a f t e r g l o w

 

He catches Yusaku once again in his tiny run-down apartment just outside the shopping district, making the decision as he’s shutting the door behind him to do it. Go through with it. He’s here and he knows what he wants, as new and confusing as it is — why stop now? It won’t take long. It shouldn’t, anyway, unless Yusaku puts up a bigger fight than what Spectre’s expecting (and he isn’t expecting all that much).

 

And besides. Maybe Yusaku wants him too. He hasn’t pushed him away yet at least, so there’s that.

 

From where he’s clasping his shirt at the nape by the bathroom mirror, Yusaku looks up, making eye contact through their reflections. His eyebrow lifts as if to say,  _ What do you want from me now?  _ and Spectre mentally implores a list of every answer he has to that question, but in the end just steels his resolve, hikes a shoulder to his chin, and smirks.

 

“I wouldn’t bother with that,” he says, making a vague gesture. “You won’t be needing it.”

 

Yusaku’s hands drop to his sides, and he turns. The fire in his eyes clicks a notch higher, flares a breath brighter; his brows furrowing, his mouth tugs low into a frown before he says, “What do you  _ want _ , Spectre?”

 

“Just appreciating the view. Has anyone ever told you you’re attractive? A little fierce, but.” He drums a finger on his bottom lip, mocking contemplative. “We could work on that.”

 

Yusaku blinks. For a moment, Spectre insists it’s already over, he’s  _ won  _ — but then Yusaku scoffs and twists to face the mirror again, resuming the previous task of arranging his dampened hair into its usual position. “Go away,” he says flatly.

 

“You don’t want company?”

 

“If it’s you?” Yusaku asks, sounding incredulous. “No. I told you that the last time you broke in.”

 

Spectre steps away from the door, the polished shine of his dress shoes sticking out against the splintered and dusty floorboards. “Unfortunate,” he says, mere paces off from Yusaku. He drums a foot idly on the creaking floor. “I’ve been told I’m good at being companionable. And besides… You’ve never made any real effort to keep me from coming here.”

 

To this, Yusaku says nothing, though his twitching fingers do fumble with a strand of blue — his comb tumbles out of his grip to the floor and he curses, ducking his head.

 

Taking this as a gateway, Spectre advances in a few long, silent strides until his front is flush to the slope of Yusaku’s back. When he feels Yusaku stifle a gasp and stiffen, Spectre drops his cheek onto the crown of his hair with a disappointed sigh. His fingers curl around Yusaku’s biceps, surprisingly more toned than he’d figured they’d be, and through the mirror he watches Yusaku wrench shut his eyes, blotting out the image entirely.

 

“You look constipated,” Spectre snorts.

 

“Shut up,” Yusaku breathes, starting to exude a dark anger that rubs Spectre  _ just  _ the right way, “and let go.”

 

“Why?” Spectre hums, and slips one hand back to the buttoned front of Yusaku’s nightshirt, undoing it with quick, nimble fingers. “Really now, I told you that you wouldn’t be needing this.”

 

Jerking free his arm, Yusaku snaps, “I’m  _ serious _ —,” but just as brusquely has Spectre seized his wrist and pinned it forward against the sink. He relishes the delicate flinch Yusaku tries to compose, and feels his own expression flicker to practiced neutrality.

 

“So am I,” he says, pulling Yusaku’s shirt the rest of the way off and tossing it to the ground, discarded and (he hopes) forgotten. “And I don’t intend to make this unpleasant for you,” he adds casually, “so I recommend you just—,”

 

Yusaku’s growl rumbles low in his throat before he lunges.

 

Caught completely off his fucking guard (he thought it was going pretty well!), Spectre stumbles back, gripping his face where it feels like it’s on fire. “ _ Playmaker _ ,” he seethes. “There’s no need to be rash.”

 

Yusaku braces a hand on the sink, breathing haggard, wisps of his hair sticking to the side of his face. “Out,” he murmurs. “Whatever you’re trying to do,  _ stop _ . I’m not doing this.”

 

“Yes,” Spectre demands, dragging his hand down his throbbing cheek one last time before storming forward, snatching Yusaku by his wrist again, “you  _ are _ .”

 

It’s a game of tag, it feels like; Yusaku lurches his wrist back to his chest, cradling it there, and the raw emotion shining in his eyes him makes him appear infinitely bigger — the angry light of his eyes flashes to fear, and probably all that succeeds in is making Spectre incredibly,  _ painstakingly  _ turned on. He’s never been this hard in his life. Which is, admittedly, pretty embarrassing.

 

“Get  _ out _ ,” Yusaku hisses, teeth gnashed into a neat white rail. “I’ve put up with you these last few months, but—,”

 

Spectre knocks him back into the sink and hoists him up in one swift motion so he’s sitting on it. Yusaku blinks, his face burning (embarrassment, it seems, is an expression Spectre quite digs on him). He gives his legs an indignant kick, but Spectre steps between them with a vengeance and rests his palms on Yusaku’s knees, squeezing. “Now,” he sighs, “that wasn’t so bad, was it?”

 

Yusaku flicks a wrist for another hit — unthinking, Spectre grabs him sharply at the cheeks with a hand, squishing his mouth and cracking his skull back against the glass of the mirror. There’s a disruptive splintering, then a frustrated whimper as Yusaku tears his nails down Spectre’s forearm.

 

So maybe Spectre not expecting a fight had been something of an mistake on his part. “Do you have to be so stubborn? I already told you I’m not planning on making this unpleasant for you.”

 

Yusaku jerks his chin as if to indicate the mirror fractured at his head. 

 

“That was an accident,” Spectre insists.

 

In retaliation, Yusaku bites the flat of Spectre’s hand and glances his nails off his eyebrow.

 

At this point, Spectre’s left thinking:  _ okay, hah hah, funny but enough is enough _ . This was supposed to be some simple, easy show of bravado, some stupid ritual, and now he’s sure he’s putting in way more effort than need be. Or are these things meant to take effort? Sure, greediness in lieu of graciousness tends to skew his perspective a bit, but he doesn’t think he’s  _ that  _ far off.

 

He gathers Yusaku’s wrists up in his other hand and pins them pressed together over his head against the mirror, pleased by the whoosh of breath that leaves Yusaku’s lungs, the way he turns his face nervously to the side as if he can disguise how badly he’s coming undone.

 

“Good,” Spectre says, more to himself. “Just — stay like that, for God’s sake. Relax.” He dips his mouth into the crook of Yusaku’s neck, tests biting the skin there and delights in the dainty gasp he hears muffled into his palm. “Good,” he repeats, softer now, and trails feather-light brushes of his lips up and down the smooth, pale skin of Yusaku’s throat. He tastes clean, still smells soapy and damp from his evening shower.

 

Spectre bites a hickey into Yusaku’s neck, and another one, clutching his mouth so tightly he might shatter the poor kid’s jaw as his restraint, tedious, crumbles. Yusaku furiously grinds a heel at his thigh, but Spectre finds it kind of refreshing and doesn’t bother stopping him.

 

At some point, having left teeth-shaped marks that shine copper off his neck and chest in a beautiful array, Spectre slips a finger into Yusaku’s mouth. Then a second. He feels the twitch of Yusaku’s wrists, the further press of his heel — and it’s  _ good _ . Spectre could get used to this. And he does. Every shortened breath, every wheezing stutter of his voice, every  _ gag _ when a third finger settles too deep; he listens, disbelieving how easy it is to make Yusaku bawk like this,  _ keen  _ like this..

 

Spectre considers his fingers sufficiently wet and drags his lips off Yusaku’s skin with a string of drool still attached from bruise to tongue. Removing his fingers from Yusaku’s mouth, he slowly wipes the excess away with the pad of his thumb, eyes level with Yusaku’s, boring into him even when, panting, Yusaku forces his attention at the wall.

 

“You don’t have to do that, you know,” Spectre says, untying the drawstrings at Yusaku’s hips until he can get his pants loose; getting them off is a struggle of wiggling the fabric out from under his rear bit by bit. Once removed he throws them by Yusaku’s shirt, somehow satisfied with the image of his nightclothes all piled up on the floor. “You can look at me.”

 

“You think I—,” Yusaku swallows. He huffs out a deep breath, his bare chest rising almost dramatically, which is perhaps the most delightful thing Spectre’s seen in his life. “You think I  _ want  _ to?” he finishes, nearly a whisper.

 

“Yes.” Smirking, Spectre palms Yusaku through the thin layer of fabric separating him from what he wants and says, “You’ve had no issue looking at me the last few times I came here.” He dips his hand beneath the undergarment; Yusaku jolts, spluttering, his head snapping forward so quickly that he nearly pulls something in his neck.

 

“You weren’t doing  _ this  _ the last few—,”

 

Without warning, Spectre pushes a slick finger into his entrance, straight to the knuckle. Yusaku makes to yell, but Spectre, having planned for this already, shuts him up with a kiss, and sees how Yusaku’s expression wrenches, green eyes squeezing shut, his face set aflame and arms shaking where they’re held.

 

Spectre’s pace is rough, maybe a little ruthless — he’s got two fingers put to work in no time, and between kisses all he hears is a hushed blend of, “ _ Stop _ ,” and, “ _ Spectre _ ,” and, “ _ Fuck _ ,” in mismatched order, his favourite when Yusaku, defeated, brackets Spectre’s hips with his legs and practically sobs his name, hair pasted to the crimson burning of his cheeks.

 

“It’s not so bad,” Spectre murmurs, “after you get used to it.”

 

Yusaku, apparently, has nothing to say to this; it looks like he’s fighting not to say much of anything at all.

 

Spectre slips his fingers out, and as he’s midway through nudging Yusaku’s undergarment the rest of the way down, his left hand lights up in a flurry of white-hot pain. In an instant, just as he’s pulled his hand away to tend to it, Yusaku has grabbed his wrists with a fury behind the gesture that, yeah, makes Spectre pretty aroused. Seriously.

 

“I said  _ stop _ ,” he rasps out, a bloodied shard of glass slipping out from between his trembling fingers. “What don’t you understand about the word?”

 

“It’s not like you disliked it,” Spectre laughs weakly. “You seemed pretty content to be fingered, didn’t you?”

 

Yusaku’s eyes narrow to dangerous green slits, but it does nothing to remove his ever-present blush. “Get out,” he says. “And don’t come back anymore. I don’t care how lonely you are; go bother Revolver.”

 

“Playmaker... Just settle down. I’ll leave you alone when I’m done, promise.”

 

“ _ No _ ,” Yusaku says, shoving back Spectre’s hands, “no, you’re not touching me anymore. Out.”

 

Spectre twitches. “I’m not leaving,” he says, and manages to wrench his hands from Yusaku’s grip. “You can’t make me go.”

 

“Who’s to say?” Yusaku scoffs. “ _ You _ ?”

 

“Yes,” Spectre says, “me,” and he hefts Yusaku off the sink and onto the bed the next room over, keeping a knee between the kid’s legs as he wrestles what remains of his clothes down the rest of the way. “There,” he says, disposing of the sad pair of boxers. He turns back to Yusaku, whose lips are a thin white line.

 

Spectre watches him almost warily, raising an eyebrow, and unbuttons his pants. He slides them down his thighs, breathes in, finds Yusaku’s gaze again — but Yusaku is staring at the wall again, abhorrently stubborn, back of his wrist over his mouth. His face is red, like a cherry. Maybe a rose.

 

Spectre tucks Yusaku’s legs over his hips, straightens to get a hand on Yusaku’s shoulder, and pushes down and in simultaneously with a hiss.

 

Yusaku’s back arches off the bed; he bites his wrist, the fingers of his free hand scrambling for purchase in the slipping bedsheets. Spectre would think it weird he’s completely clothed and Yusaku is bare naked had he been securely in his mind, but he’s gone, so far gone, so lost in the planes of Yusaku’s chest, the expanse of pale skin beneath him, sweat glistening on his forehead where his hair sticks.

 

He moves his hips once, twice, and bows his head as he builds to a tempo, a steady rhythm, wishing Yusaku would touch him, forgiving that he won’t (because of course he won’t, why would he?).

 

He goes slow, at first, conscious of the way Yusaku is shaking, maiming his wrist by gnawing it, but the sight is goading,  _ alleviating _ , and it isn’t long before Spectre is driving into him, nails in his chest, his naval, his thighs, Yusaku with clear droplets of tears forming on the corners of his eyes that Spectre lowers himself to lick off; he tugs Yusaku’s hand away and whispers, “Let me hear you.”

 

“Go fuck yourself,” Yusaku chokes, and there’s a malice to it,  _ venom  _ despite how wrecked he is, despite the bruises and the hickeys and the man, the  _ man  _ fucking him raw.

 

“It would be hard,” Spectre murmurs, breathless, face inches from Yusaku’s, “at this angle. Don’t you think?”

 

Yusaku buries half his face into the sheets. Sweat sticks his hair there. “I wouldn’t know.”

 

“You wouldn’t?”

 

Yusaku’s eyes flicker shut; he begins to cry, and he grits his teeth, ashamed. A stifled breath bubbles out of him, and for a moment he suffocates, seeming to try to drag it back inside. He bites his lip with enough force it bleeds, so Spectre licks that away, too. Savors it, that metallic rust.

 

He pulls out to the tip, hears Yusaku mutter incoherently, and thrusts himself the rest of the way back in, does this a couple of times, until Yusaku throws his head and  _ moans _ , open-mouthed and whining, his damp hair fanned out on the bed and his hands flying up to claw the space around Spectre’s shoulders as he comes, shuddering at his own release.

 

Spectre bites his collarbone and interlaces the fingers of one of his hands with one of Yusaku’s, his other ripping through Yusaku’s hair, forcing exposed the narrow column of his throat, just so he can see it, stare at it, while following suit inside of him, orgasm racking his body like a tidal wave through a temple.

 

Yusaku gags out what sounds like, “I  _ hate  _ you,” and Spectre takes that in stride, lucid as he unhinges his jaw from Yusaku’s skin and settles instead for nestling his face in the crook of his neck, warm. Warmer than he’s ever been. “Did you not hear me? I hate you,” Yusaku babbles uncharacteristically, “ _ Does Revolver know that you _ —,” his voice breaks, and Spectre’s brow furrows, and he sits up partially to find Yusaku’s expression devastated, streaked through with tears, in shambles.

 

Spectre’s chest aches. He isn’t sure why, not even when he cups Yusaku’s face in a hand and thumbs away the salt and water. Yusaku, more exhausted than Spectre’s ever seen him — which is saying something, really quite saying something — takes it limply, letting him have this as he tries in vain not to cry. His whole face is contorted to accommodate it, eyebrows upturned in the center and his eyes only squinting, mouth wrenched upside down.

 

His sobs are silent, as though Spectre is undeserving of hearing them.

 

Softly, wondering if he’s hearing himself right, Spectre who hasn’t had the decency to pull out yet whispers, “Why are you crying, Playmaker?”

 

Yusaku’s face scrunches further, and still he’s  _ pretty _ . This Spectre sort of despises, or just envies, or is just really fucking confused by because he’s hurt. And he doesn’t understand, though he wishes he could. 

 

He traces his knuckles down the side of Yusaku’s face and says, “I’ve always wanted to know what you looked like when you cried.” Seeing it and imaging it were two different things, though. Somehow, it wasn’t what he’d been expecting.

 

Spectre doesn’t bother to stick around much longer, and true to his word, he doesn’t come back.

**Author's Note:**

> spectre that’s not how you ask out your crush you heathen


End file.
